


Inside An Abandoned House

by The13thClassicDisaster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Stucky - Freeform, The Shit I End Up Doing in an Attempt to Lose my Writer's Block, stucky drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9603098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The13thClassicDisaster/pseuds/The13thClassicDisaster
Summary: It took a while for the Soldier to realize what he was feeling, that he was even feeling something, and it took even longer for him to put a name on it: doubt. Steel blue eyes shoot down in an attempt to pierce the clouds of ash and dust to see where the man from the bridge had fallen into, and for the first time in a long, long time, he acts on his own, lets his doubt fuel him. He moves.××Or shitty stucky drabble about Bucky's thoughts while he was saving Captain Dorito that even I didn't ask for yet here it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was doing this like, when I should have been showering for uni, so if it's messy and filled with typos, that's why. Un-beta'd, unnecessary, under the sea, because my attention span cannot afford such luxuries
> 
> And I blame Jordan for this.

In retrospect, the Soldier thinks that all the time he'd spent asleep, maybe even awake, within the control of his handlers felt like he was afloat— _suspended_ inside something solid. He thinks some kind of crystal would fit his musings, locked within liquid gemstone— stuck. He's gone adrift for so long, watched beyond the glassy walls of his mind what happened before his eyes, what his own hands had done, all the ruins that dirtied his feet, that he wonders if finding a way out was actually _finding a way out_ and not another withering attempt of his old mind to revive itself.

 

It's happened once before, and he was thankful the Chair had been there to save him.

 

Yet now he would have laughed at himself if he wasn't surrounded by water and debris, he'd have laughed if he could still remember _how_ , because right now, it's as if he'd let the ashes of his old mind snake its way back out from its grave, and he was getting more and more doubtful by the minute. His handler had gone and told him that there was no room for doubt, that he was a soldier and he will go by order even if it killed him, so if there was anything left for him to do, this he would. The only difference now was that the order he was under was now his _own,_ and it left a bad taste in his mouth— worse than usual, anyway.

 

His time was running out, the man on the bridge spun and swirled with the water around him, hit by a couple falling parts of the craft they'd fallen from, and if the Soldier did not move as quickly as he should, he'd fail his mission. It was something he could never afford. This births deeply engraved precision in the form of strong kicks and wide strokes, closing the two metre gap in between him and the man on the bridge, counting the seconds that it would take for him to grasp an unmoving hand and when he does, he almost lets go the second after when he feels a twitch against his palm.

 

Shaken was a feeling he's so long overcome that when it hits him again he almost drowns himself. It was a twitch, and not of a dying man.

 

It was a sign that the man on the bridge was still alive.

 

The Soldier did not realize how long his thoughts had stalled until he feels a bursting pain in between his shoulder blades and realizes that he's been hit by another scrapped piece from the craft and that sooner than later the rest of it will fall and kill them both. He chokes on water, tries to cough it out but thinks better of it when the currently only berrates him. So he regrasps the hand of the man on the bridge, pulls him so close tension fills the sinews of his flesh and his heart races, forcing his lungs into craving more air. He does not remember a time he went and saved a life rather than take it like the Reaper he knows he is, and the thought of being unsure of what he's doing settles heavy in his stomach. But the Soldier pushes on, throws an arm over his shoulder and swims with the ache of his twin organs in his chest away from the falling remnants of their battle, and towards the shores.

 

The river water was unkind, maybe because of the fright the falling craft had granted it, and the Soldier came out sputtering as he hauled the man up over the banks and onto the softened ground. He rises and coughs on all fours, breathless and annoyed.

 

He turns and sits wetly on the ground, unable to find a better, more fertile evidence that what he has done was not a mindless act of unnecessary sacrifice, and it only fueled his annoyance. He shifts his glare towards the man on the bridge and finds that he was now paler than he had been before, and looked different now that he wasn't talking and was covered is cuts and bruises. He looked human, and the Soldier's drive to overcome him had long since left. 

 

Then for whatever reason, he felt uneasy not seeing the man's chest rise and fall. All caution falters and he moves until he was leaning towards the man on the bridge, his flesh hand the only one he wishes to reach out with. Then the man sputters, coughs a breath, then another, water gurgling out of his mouth. The Soldier flinches back and breathes slow through his nose and looks up at the clouds of dust clearing. 

 

This man wasn't like the others he's killed. This man wasn't _built_ to be killed. It worried the Soldier how alike they were.

 

So he rises, leaves the groggy man on the ground, and as soon as he could, he runs.


End file.
